Blind Date
by Floopygirl
Summary: Sam goes on a blind date. Set in S7, between 'Grace' and 'Chimera'. SJ UST, Sother. COMPLETE


Category: Romance/Angst

Pairings: S/J UST, S/other

Rating: PG-13 – for language? For kissing? I still don't have a handle on the rating systems.

Season: Seven. Post Grace, pre Chimera (which I haven't seen yet, sighs)

Summary: Sam goes on a blind date.

Disclaimer: they're not mine and I'm not making any money from this.

A/N: The idea for this came to me after writing an A/N for a different fic. I'd love any constructive criticism, including comments about characterisation, but please don't flame me if you love S&J together and are unhappy. I love them together too.

I'm afraid this does resound with clichés, but doesn't everything? Maybe not. Please tell me if it's too much.

No beta for this one – all mistakes are my own.

* * *

You sit alone at the table in the dimly-lit restaurant, tapping your fingers on the white tablecloth. Your nails are pink, filed smooth, and they reflect the candlelight. They're subtle and softly feminine – while you'd feel ridiculous attempting the 'sex kitten' look, you still like to make an effort. You sip your wine and sulk: such pretty nails do not deserve to be stood up. 

Just as you're about to pull out your mobile phone and ask Janet where the hell your date is, you see someone walking towards you. He's about your height, has a bit of a paunch and his complexion's ruddy. He's wearing a navy suit, teamed with a loud red tie that screams 'car salesman' at you. You're nervous, he's not your type and you want to run out of there as quickly as you can. Instead you force yourself to stand up and hold out a hand in welcome. You deserve to love someone and to be loved in return, and you'll never find that person sitting inside the SGC, working on your doohickeys. It's a shame though that the man in front of you doesn't seem a likely candidate.

He takes your hand in his and shakes it roughly, gripping too hard. You're tempted to clench back but remind yourself to play nice. So what if his hand is damp: sweaty palms are just part of the first date experience. You're putting yourself out there, taking a chance, and it's good.

So now you're sitting and are wearing a rigid smile as John explains that his car wouldn't start, he had to call a cab and it took twenty minutes to arrive, yadda yadda yadda. You force your lips to relax – just because you've had the importance of punctuality drummed into you since the Academy doesn't mean everyone has to be as uptight about it as you. It's cold outside, not at all surprising that he was having car trouble. 'Not at all surprising,' a smug part of you repeats, assigning the words a different meaning.

The arrival of your menus provides a welcome distraction. You skim over the pages, not really giving a damn what you eat but determined to pick carefully. The last thing you want is a piece of spaghetti adorning your little grey dress. You chose it because black is too obvious and grey can look sexy as well, ignoring the tiny voice that accused you of being chicken and not wanting to attract whoever you met. If you didn't, then why would you have agreed to this date in the first place?

You're both running out of comments about how good everything on the menu looks and how difficult it is to make a decision. After all it's really not that difficult – when in doubt you can always close your eyes and point. That's what Daniel always does when you go out – he claims there are more interesting things to talk about with his friends than meal choices and you agree with him.

The waitress comes over and asks if you're ready yet. You order a cream of mushroom soup followed by lasagna, trying to ignore the look of surprise that flashes over your dinner partner's face. It's hard resisting a glance downwards to check the fit of your dress: is he trying to tell you that you eat too much? Or maybe he's just an idiot. Or maybe not – he's a friend of Janet's after all and she wouldn't set you up with a jerk.

You'd love another glass of wine to help you relax, but you're driving and have to settle for mineral water. A DUI charge is not the end to the evening that you've been hoping for.

And now it's time for the awkward pre-starter conversation. You answer the inevitable question about your job by saying you work in deep space radar telemetry and you'd love to discuss it, but the details are classified. He looks like he's about to laugh and then, realising that you're serious, turns even pinker instead. You ask him about his work and he tells you that he's a realtor and starts to describe some of the properties he's flogging at the moment. You encourage him, eager to keep the conversation going. And then tune out. It's not really fair, but his stories aren't exactly riveting and his voice is just that little bit too loud. It makes you want to cover your ears.

As the soup arrives you scold yourself for not giving the guy a chance. It's not his fault that he's not the man you want to be sharing a table with. You breathe in the delicious aroma from the creamy liquid in front of you and break off a piece of ciabatta to dip in it. Summon up your courage. And smoothly ask, "So John, what do you like to do outside of work?"

John is interested in the theatre. He enjoys playing golf (why are you not surprised?). He confesses hesitantly to having a tank full of tropical fish of which he's very fond (your smile is genuine this time and you think of Jonas). He tells a surprisingly witty anecdote about his school electrics club when you describe your love of 'tinkering with things' and his eyes light up when you mention you own a motorcycle; doubtlessly he's imagining you clad head to foot in black leather, but the thought doesn't bother you as much as you might have expected. You're actually beginning to enjoy your date.

Then he interrupts, unable to believe that he forgot to mention his love of fishing. Part of you cringes. He talks about his sailing boat and the weekend trips he takes to Missouri (it's a long drive but totally worth it). He talks about the equipment you need, even explaining the difference between a spinning reel and a closed face reel. Apparently one hangs under the pole and another sits on top, but you doesn't really want to know and are having trouble making the right noises. He's not the man you want to hear it from. You yearn to be back in your lab, playing with your doohickeys, or sitting at home, watching a documentary with a tub of ice cream for company.

Of course it's all your fault that you're here. You were the one who pushed Janet into organising this date for you. You were in the infirmary, recovering from your head injury from the Prometheus when she wandered with her lunch to keep you company. She looked particularly happy and you asked what was up. She blushed a little and confessed to seeing a new guy who was really sweet and funny and who made her toes curl when she thought about him.

You couldn't believe it when you started crying, and found yourself telling her that you wanted your toes to curl too, that you knew the right guy was out there somewhere but you were scared of never finding him and of ending up all alone. You even confessed your secret fear of having no one to accept your flag at your funeral. She laughed at that, saying you had friends and family who loved you and that they'd always be there for you, but then she realised you were serious and stopped. At that point you tearfully asked if she knew anyone you might get along with and a thoughtful expression came over her face. She said there might be one guy, at which point you perked up, clinging to the idea as if it were a lifeline and demanding she set something up for you. Which is why you're here right now, sitting opposite a man in a red tie, listening to him talk about fishing.

Finally you excuse yourself to go to the ladies and slip away, staring at yourself in the mirror as if your reflection has all the answers you can't find for yourself. Your face looks slightly drawn, so you take out your lipstick and powder and make a few touch-ups. Then you get angry: so what if he likes fishing? It's a popular sport. You pucker your lips and blow yourself a kiss, determined to have fun for the rest of the evening. After all, maybe he's special and you just haven't realised yet.

Back at the table John is sitting, waiting with the dessert menus. He suggests you share the chocolate cake but you demur, turned off by the intimacy of sharing with someone who's almost a stranger. He misunderstands and protests, telling you that you look fabulous and have no need to worry about your figure, and you actually believe him, sitting up straight in your chair. You invent an allergy to chocolate and order crème brulee for yourself instead.

As you savour each mouthful of your dessert you have no idea of what to think. Has this date been a disaster or not? He's arrogant, not that attractive and really doesn't know how to dress. On the other hand he can be quite funny and it's not his fault that he's a fishing enthusiast. You wonder what you'll do if he invites you for an after-dinner drink somewhere else.

Sadly, you'll never know. You hear a beeping sound and realise it's your pager – a message from the SGC asking you to come in. You mumble excuses, trying to make deep space radar telemetry sound cutting-edge and the kind of field which summons you in urgently on a Friday night. He's very sweet, leaving money on the table and offering to walk you to your car. You stand outside your Volvo and thank him for a lovely evening, while he asks if he can call you again. You pause and then agree – after all, what if he's your special someone? – and he smiles. Slowly he leans in and brushes his lips over yours, looks into your eyes and then kisses you again more firmly. You respond, thinking how long it's been since you were on a date and how you'd forgotten about first kiss nerves, and surely a real kiss has got to be better than any hallucination?

He deepens the kiss and you find out you're wrong. His tongue is invading your mouth, you feel claustrophobic, he's slobbering on you, does he really think that your tonsils are an erogenous zone? You place your hands on his chest and _push_, but he doesn't seem offended, moving away with a grin stretched across his face. You realise he's definitely not the person for you and hastily get in your car and drive away, wondering how many times you'll have to do this again before finding someone you like.

You phone the base on the way over and find out that the iris is locked into position and won't open. There are no incoming teams expected, but there's always the chance of something going wrong off world and you don't want the planet's finest to be splattered like bugs on a windshield.

You park in a VIP spot, desperate to save time, and run in as fast as you can in a dress and heels. There's no time to change into something more appropriate, and the passing airmen's faces show both amusement and appreciation for your outfit. Then you're in the control room, vaguely aware of Jack's presence but with no time to be self-conscious, and you push Sergeant Harriman out of the way. You study the monitors, your fingers fly over the keyboard and three minutes later you press your hand into the palm sensor. The iris opens, another catastrophe averted. You lean back in your chair, catching your breath.

A voice behind you says "Nice work Sam," and you turn around to see your commanding officer grinning at you. He looks you up and down and you curse the warmth that runs through you, and try not to blush. His face sobers as he comments. "Hot date, Carter?"

You shrug and mumble. It had been a date, certainly, but you're not sure if it qualified as 'hot'. He looks at you, face filled with something that might be apology or might be hurt. Maybe even both.

"Is he waiting for you?" You shake your head and this time you're certain: it's relief he's showing. You bid everyone goodnight and head up to the infirmary. There's a certain someone you have to find.

xxxxx

Janet's sitting at her desk, working on some charts. Paperwork: it'll be the downfall of the Air Force. You walk up to her and ask the question that's been bothering you. "Why him?"

She takes in your appearance and smiles. "Sam you look lovely, though a little colourless." You ignore her blatant attempt at evasion and wait, hands on hips.

She glances down and then admits defeat. "Sam, you already have a guy who makes your toes curl. You're just too stubborn to admit it, and I hoped that a date with John might open your eyes a little."

You'd love to act surprised but you're not, not really. You always knew that Janet had the potential for meddling – you should be grateful that it took her so long to start on you.

"So, how was it, anyway? I'm guessing it didn't go well."

You sit down and share the gossip. She is your friend after all and you don't begrudge her the gory details. She laughs and moans in the right places and apologises when you tell her about the tonsil licking.

You leave with regret, heading back to your empty house. You know that Janet thinks she's changed your mind, but she hasn't. You deserve a life, to love someone and be loved in return. Until the regulations change, Jack can't be that someone for you. Next time you'll ask someone different to set you up.


End file.
